


Dare to Dream

by ishafel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-11
Updated: 2011-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/pseuds/ishafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Forger and Point Man are selected to showjump for the United States at the Olympics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dare to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Any resemblance to actual Real People is entirely coincidental.

Eames' mobile rang while they were somewhere on the Jersey Turnpike. Yusuf was driving, and Eames had been singing along with the radio and filling out entry forms and he was desperately glad of the interruption, even if it was from an unlisted number. “Talk to me, baby,” he said into the phone.

“Mr. Eames?” The voice on the other end was stiff, uncomfortable. “This is Dominic Cobb, calling on behalf of the United States Equestrian Federation. You've been selected to jump for the United States at the Olympic Games.”

“Jesus fuck,” Eames said, and nearly dropped the phone.

“Is that the feed store?”, Yusuf asked, “because if it is, tell them we've sent the cheque. They should have it by Tuesday at the latest.”

Eames made the universal gesture for shut up, shut up at him and said in to the phone, “Thank you, sir. It's a great honor.”

“Yes,” Cobb said. “Well. Congratulations. You've certainly had an impressive season with The Forger. I trust you'll be at the Hamptons this weekend?”

“We're on our way there now,” Eames said. “I'm jumping some of the young horses during the week, and The Forger is entered in the Grand Prix.”

“Mal is showing as well, so I'm sure we'll see you. I've got a great deal of paperwork to pass on.”

“Yeah,” Eames agreed, aware that he sounded like an idiot, but unable to hold a coherent conversation to save his life. “I'll see you.”

And then he turned to Yusuf. “You'll never guess who that was. Never in a billion fucking years, darling.”

“It wasn't the vet, at least,” Yusuf said, “which is good since her cheque is most certainly not in the mail, and won't be unless Forge wins the big class Saturday night.”

“It was Dominic Cobb, the chef d'equip for the United States showjumping team--.”

“And he's found out about the time you banged his wife?”

If Yusuf weren't driving the horsebox with The Forger in the back on the most horrifying road in America, Eames would have punched him in the throat. “A, they were on a break,” he said, “b, I'm fairly sure he already knows about that, and c, no that is not why he was calling. I made the team. We made the team.”

“Break, my ass,” Yusuf said, but Eames was pretty sure his eyes were tearing up, too. “Nice job, boss.”

“Thanks, but we both know who deserves the credit. Let's stop and get something to eat, and tell him the good news.”

“First Subway I see,” Yusuf promised. “So who else made it?”

“I forgot to even ask,” Eames said. “Let me look it up.” The Chronicle already had the news posted, scrolling across the top of their website. “Eames and The Forger-- listed first, please note-- Mallorie Cobb, on Edith, no nepotism involved there, I'm sure-- Nash with Other People's Money, and damn, that is a good horse. Arthur Vanderbilt with Daddy Can Buy Me Anything I Like, I'm sorry, make that Point Man, and in reserve, our little friend Ariadne, and Limbo.”

“So you're going to be a good sport and the glue that holds the team together, no doubt,” Yusuf said, swinging the box in a wide right turn into a rest stop parking lot. “I just hope they don't make you pay for your red team coat up front, or we're going to have to rob a bank on the way there.”

Eames glared balefully at him. “Get me a cheese steak sub and a Coke,” he said. “I'll water the horses.”

With the engine and running lights shut off, the box is dim inside. Eames poured water into a bucket and stroked noses. Most of the horses belonged to clients, and they were paychecks and not pets, but they didn't know the difference. They were glad to see him and they sniffed his jacket, hoping for peppermints. He supplied them, checking the protective bandages on their legs and the bags of hay by their heads.

He left The Forger for last, the way he always did. The big horse pressed his face against Eames' chest and Eames leaned against him, feeling his warmth and strength and calmness. “We did it,” he says softly, “we finally did it.”

Forge took his peppermint like royalty expecting tribute, and Eames straightened his rug and dusted the hay out of his mane. The Forger was the only horse he brought with him from Kenya five years ago, and it cost Eames pretty much every cent he could raise at the time for airfare. No one else believed then, not even Yusuf-- sometimes not even Eames himself.

He still felt like maybe this was a dream, most days, today more than ever. Like if he pinched himself he'd wake up and he'd be back riding for Cobol Stables outside Mombasa, trying to keep his mouth shut and his head down, desperate to get out. He'd wake up and Forge would be this skinny, broken-down thing, sore on all four legs and the spirit beaten out of him.

 

*

 

The traffic in New York was truly brutal, and then they had a blowout on the truck. They didn't roll in to the show grounds until after midnight. If Eames were someone else, like, say, Mal Cobb, with her half dozen grooms and working students, or Arthur, with his daddy's fortune, or even Ariadne with her supportive parents, he would have driven straight to the hotel in his Maserati convertible and gone to bed.

Instead, by the time he and Yusuf got the horses settled, it was nearly three, and they were too tired even to set up the cots in the box. They slept in the truck, because it's surprisingly chilly for August and the only blankets Eames could find were Forge's wool prize coolers. They flipped for the bench seat and Yusuf won, so Eames had to curl around the gear shift. He had to be up and ready to school at five, and his head ached, but he was so wound up from Cobb's call that he can't sleep.

Eventually he gave it up and got out, still wrapped in the bright wool blanket, and staggered back into the stables. His horses were asleep, The Forger flat on his side and snoring. Eames watched him for a while, fondly, before he kept moving down the shed row. Stall after stall of beautiful, expensive horses, most of them worth more than Eames' mortgage, more than the GDP of Kenya.

The Hamptons reminded him of Mombasa, a little. Everyone there was either very, very rich, or very poor-- and they were utterly dependent on one another. Most of the horses were drowsing, quiet and peaceful. But in the next aisle he recognized a familiar brown head, narrow and elegant and sharply alert. Point Man. He rubbed the stallion's ears gently, and Point lipped at the collar of his shirt.

“He loves you,” someone said behind him, “he'd take anyone else's face off if they came that close.”

Eames turned, too quickly, and trips on his blanket-cape. “You okay?” Arthur asked, but Eames could tell he was laughing.

“Fine,” Eames said. He checked his watch. Even though it was four in the morning, Arthur was immaculately dressed in breeches and boots and a dark blue sweater over a light blue collared shirt. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. “You're up early.”

“I have a couple of horses in the first class. You know how it is-- I like to make sure of everything.”

Eames and Yusuf had worked for Arthur, Senior for a while, just after they came to the States. Young Arthur was still in college, then, but he was already displaying serious O.C.D. The brass on his horses' bridles was never shiny enough, the dirt in the aisle had to be raked in a herringbone pattern, and every time Eames turned around Arthur'd been standing behind him, watching him. Eames had found it frustrating and deeply unnerving, and he hadn't been too sorry to come to a parting of ways with Senior.

He'd never been much good at tugging his forelock, anyway. “Yeah,” Eames said. “I remember. Congratulations on the team, Arthur. Point must be going really well for you.”

Arthur shrugged, like he was a little embarrassed. “I guess, yeah. Congratulations to you, too, Eames. And on getting your citizenship and everything, too.”

“Thanks.” Eames wanted to leave, but as was often the case when Arthur was involved, felt it would be awkward. “I should go. I have to, you know, I have one in the first class, too.”

“Sure,” Arthur said.

Eames could feel Arthur watching as he walked away, and tried not to walk faster.

By eight he was on the first horse, warming up. It was going to be a very long day. The little mare he was on belonged to a client, and she'd never been to a show this big, but she jumped around well, just dropping the back rail in the triple bar for four faults. She came fourth, which earned her a little prize money and a white ribbon, enough to make the client happy. One of Arthur's horses came in second.

Eames handed the mare off to Yusuf and got on the next horse. It was starting to get hot, and he was already sweating through his shirt. He drank half a bottle of water and phoned the mare's owner while he was waiting for his turn to jump off.

It was one of those days. Eames' horses went well enough, but he felt like he was a step behind them. It was all he could do to be politely obsequious to the owners and not snap at poor Yusuf, who was just as hot and exhausted. He was done by three, but then he still had to get on Forge, and the big horse had clearly been feeling neglected.

When Eames tried to pull up the girth, Forge groaned like a fat man at a buffet, and folded at the knees. Eames hah to yank him upright and undo the buckles before he collapsed completely. And once he was on, The Forger pranced around the show grounds, shying violently at things he'd seen a thousand times before. Eames rode him for an hour and then took him back to the barn.

When he slid off, Yusuf was nowhere in sight, and Eames had to bathe and walk Forge until he was cool. There was still a mountain of tack to clean, and it was almost time to do the evening feed. Instead Eames sat down on a hay bale and leaned back against the wall.

Arthur rode by on Point Man, still immaculate. Eames wondered absently if Arthur might be an alien, but didn't have the energy to pursue the thought. He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

Eames woke up when someone touched his shoulder. “Time to feed, darling,” he mumbled, not opening his eyes.

“No,” Dominic Cobb said, “but I do have some paperwork for you, Eames.”

The thing about Dominic Cobb was that Eames used to idolize him. When he was still in Kenya he read dogeared copies of The Chronicle and Practical Horseman and Horse and Hound and tracked his show results and daydreamed about riding Architecture. Cobb was the best rider in the world then, brilliant and charismatic and successful.

When Architecture broke down at the Olympics in Greece and had to be destroyed, Eames had been watching on the grainy black and white television in the tack room. Eames had cried. Everyone had cried. Cobb had had a very nasty, very public nervous breakdown a few months later, and disappeared.

By then Eames was in America, working for Arthur, Senior. At Washington, his horses were stabled next to Mallorie Cobb's. She had quit riding years ago to have babies, and was trying to make a comeback. She was scared, unhappy, and lonely, and so was Eames, and they went to bed together as much for comfort as for sex.

It ended by degrees, the way that sort of thing did, and Mal had gone back to her husband. And told him-- and told him, anyway. Cobb didn't compete any more, but he coached, and Eames had met him in Florida a couple of winters ago. He had been in charge of the official U.S. Equestrian Federation training session.

Cobb hadn't wanted Eames there, and had protested that as his citizenship hadn't come through he shouldn't be permitted. When Eames was allowed to go anyway, Cobb spent his session making it clear that neither Eames nor The Forger were adequate. Eames, rattled, had ridden very badly, and The Forger, even more rattled, had bucked him off.

Eames, humiliated in front of Cobb, Mal, and a half dozen of the best showjumpers in America, had wanted nothing more than to slink off and sulk in private. Instead he'd had to pretend to laugh about it. Ariadne had sympathized, but Nash had been particularly cutting and Arthur, who despised incompetence, had ignored him completely.

Eames hadn't forgotten, and he certainly hadn't forgiven. “Shall we?” Cobb asked, gesturing to the tack room. Before Eames could stop him, he's swept aside the curtain and stepped inside.

Most stables rented several stalls for storage, and had one for an office, with fancy drapes and potted plants and comfortable chairs. Eames and Yusuf just had the one stall, and it had all Eames' tack and the horses' feeds in their plastic bins. They kept the curtain across to hide the wreckage.

“Sorry about the mess,” Eames said, gesturing toward the trunk that is the only solid seat they have. He sat on an overturned bucket and picked up the sponge Yusuf left, and started on Forge's bridle.

“Are you short a groom?” Cobb asked, raising an eyebrow.

When Eames got home from that clinic with Cobb, two of his clients called, wanting to move their horses because they heard Eames was a disaster. It had been a long, cold winter, and Eames and Yusuf had spent it eating boxed macaroni and cheese and hot dogs, and selling trophies and the spare tack on E-Bay. Eames hadn't had to sell The Forger-- not quite-- but it had been close.

He wasn't short a groom. He didn't have a groom. There was Yusuf, who did everything but ride, and who was worth his weight in gold, and Sarah at home with the young horses in Virginia, and Eames.

Cobb knew all about being too poor to pay five hundred thousand for a promising young horse. He had no idea what it was like to go to a show knowing that if you don't win at least one class and cash a check you wouldn't be able to put petrol in the truck for the trip home. Eames earned his ticket out of Kenya on his back, and there was nothing he wouldn't do to make sure that he didn't have to do that ever again.

So he didn't punch Cobb in the teeth. “No,” he said, smiling politely, “just busy. Show me where you need me to sign.”

“Oh, it's self-explanatory enough,” Cobb said. “What I really wanted was a word with you in private, Eames.”

Eames concentrated on shining The Forger's bit, because it kept his hands from shaking. Cobb hated him, and he was completely in the right there. Eames had slept with his wife, for God's sake. But he wasn't a selector, and he couldn't kick Eames off the team. Not without justification, anyway, and Eames wasn't going to do anything to justify that.

“We got off on the wrong foot, you and I. But you're a very talented rider, and you've done an extraordinary job bringing The Forger along. I want us to be able to work together, for the good of the Team. What happened with Mal--.”

“It won't happen again,” Eames said.

“No, I'm sure it won't.”

Eames would have liked to hit him, but that would have gotten him kicked off the team for sure. “She was upset. I took advantage of her. It was wrong and it won't happen again.”

Cobb stood up and grabbed a bridle and a sponge. “She told me you saved her life,” he said quietly, wiping the dust off. “She said she was out on a ledge and thinking of stepping off and you pulled her back. So maybe I don't like how you did it, but I owe you more than I could ever repay. I fucked you over in Florida, I know that, and I'm sorry. My job is to make your job easier, and I wanted you to know that I'm going to do that.”

Eames stared at him. He couldn't think of an appropriate response. He couldn't even think what kind of response might be appropriate. No one had that effect on him like Cobb.

The curtain covering the doorway twitched and opened. Yusuf. Eames managed not to say, “Thank Christ,” out loud, which was a testament to the nuns at the orphanage, really.

Yusuf blinked in the dimness and said, “Eames? Haven't you fed yet? Ari says we can use the shower in her caravan if we're out of there before her mother comes back.”

He hadn't seen Cobb. “Yusuf,” Eames interrupted. “I don't think you've met Mr. Cobb yet.” And to Cobb, “Yusuf is my business partner. I ride the horses, and he does just about anything else.”

Yusuf shot him a look that Eames couldn't quite interpret. It was either I can't believe you're making polite conversation with this dick after everything he's done or possibly Would you hurry this up, please, so that I can go and flirt with Ariadne before her mother turns up. “Nice to meet you,” he said to Cobb, wiping his hand on his jeans before he offered it.

Cobb, to his credit, shook it and smiled at Yusuf. A lot of Americans treated their grooms like dirt, Eames had noticed. After Arthur Senior, Eames and Yusuf started to use it as a gauge. If an owner couldn't handle meeting the help, chances were he was going to be hard on his horses and ridiculous on Eames.

Of course, they were hardly at the point where they could afford to be choosy, just yet. Eames flipped through Cobb's folder of schedules and release forms and rules while Yusuf gathered the feeds and slipped out. “Well, I'll get this back to you as soon as possible,” he said, hoping that that would make Cobb go away so that they could finish up.

It didn't. “Before the Grand Prix tomorrow night, we're going to have all of you ride in so that you can be formally presented as the Team.”

Eames was always half sick before a big class. “Great.”

“Oh, and Eames. I have a potential sponsorship offer for you. A gentleman by the name of Saito. His company produces energy supplements for performance horses.”

Eames dropped the girth he was cleaning. “Really?”

Cobb grinned. “Yes, really. He wants someone young and hungry, he says. He'll be here to watch you jump tomorrow night.”

“Oh,” Eames said faintly. “So no pressure, then.”

“If you're not interested--.”

“No, I'm interested. Just. Why me, Cobb? Not that I don't appreciate the attempt to smooth things over, but we haven't exactly been friendly in the past.”

Cobb's grin faded. Eames wondered if he was thinking of Mal's white skin against Eames' tan. Mal's body, still gently rounded from the baby, soft and lush and beautiful. Eames was thinking of it.

“No,” Cobb said. “We haven't. I do mean to bury the hatchet, and not in your back. But you're right. I have another motive for recommending you to Mr. Saito. I owe Arthur a favor, and he's called it in.”

“Arthur?” Eames asked, thinking of Senior's red angry face when he'd accused Eames of babying the horses.

“Arthur the younger,” Cobb specified. “He's very fond of you, in his way.”

Eames stared at him. It wasn't that Arthur didn't owe him; Eames had been the one to find Point Man at a show in California, the one to convince Senior to buy him and the one to reschool him. It was just the thought of Arthur experiencing human emotion that was troubling.

Maybe Cobb thought so too. “Very fond,” he repeated, with less conviction.

“Thank you, then-- and thank Arthur for me, too.”

“Of course,” Cobb said, and now, finally, mercifully, stood up to go.

When he was gone, Eames put the tack away neatly and went out to help Yusuf.

“What was that about?” the other man demanded. “Seriously, Eames. I'm dying of curiosity here.”

“Cobb forgives me and Arthur likes me,” Eames said, passing Yusuf the liniment. “And they're working together to find me a sponsor.”

“Hah. Lies don't become you, my friend.”

“Have I ever lied to you?” Eames asked.

“You were the best liar at the orphanage,” Yusuf pointed out. “You lied to the nuns, to the priests, to God-- there is no one you wouldn't lie to, Eames.”

He had a point. Eames admitted it. “Fine. I'm not lying about this, though.”

Yusuf set the liniment down in the dirt and turned. His face was smeared with sweat and dust, his hair uncombed. He'd driven halfway up the coast last night and had three hours sleep in a lorry, and it showed. He was Eames' best friend, practically his brother. They'd gotten out of the orphanage together, away from Cobol together, clear of Kenya together. “Yeah,” Eames said, and Yusuf hugged him.

“Yeah, but I have to win this class tomorrow.”

“Which you will.”

“Which I will,” Eames agreed.

When the horses were done, they went and scoped out Ariadne's trailer. “No sign of Mama and Papa Bear,” Yusuf said. “I'm going in.”

Thankfully Ariadne's parents weren't inside. She let them in and gave them beers, and while Yusuf was in the shower she told Eames all about how thrilled she was that they'd been picked for the team, about how beautiful Mal was and how successful Nash was and how clever Arthur was. Eames was so far beyond exhausted he could barely stay upright, but that was the lovely thing about Ariadne. She was perfectly capable of having both sides of the conversation herself.

Eames ate all of her crisps and when it was his turn he washed his hair with her strawberry and mango shampoo and didn't feel guilty. Ariadne was sweet and talented but she'd also had more than her share of brilliant luck. She had perfectly nice, if overly protective, upper middle class parents for whom no sacrifice was too much. Eames didn't begrudge her these things but he wasn't above taking advantage.

Neither, apparently, was Yusuf. He stayed when Eames went. Eames wished him well. Ariadne was adorable, but also extremely high maintenance, and her mother was terrifying and possibly armed.

Thankfully Yusuf had found time to unpack and set up the camp beds in the horsebox. Eames ordinarily didn't sleep well at shows, but he was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. Still, when he slid into bed, he couldn't help thinking it would be nice if there were someone in it with him. Not little Ariadne. Not Mal-- never Mal again, even in his dreams-- and he thought of Cobb saying, “Arthur is very fond of you, in his way.”

He could almost imagine. Arthur was thin, but strong. No one who rode a horse as a difficult as Point Man lacked muscle. And if he fucked as well as he rode--. Eames shuddered, alone on his narrow cot in the dark, and pulled the sheets over his head.

Sex made him think of Kenya, the flat white sunlight, a greedy mouth on his throat, rough hands on his dick. And afterward, Virginia, damp green fields and the smell of fresh-cut hay, where he had been desperate to prove his body was his own again and if possible more promiscuous. But Arthur, Arthur was clean. Arthur was so clean Eames felt dirty even looking at him.

It was nine o'clock. Outside, the noise of the parking lot had subsided to a dull roar, and now that the sun was down the temperature had dropped. Eames rolled over and finally, thankfully, fell asleep.

The alarm on his cell phone woke him at four in the morning. Eames got up in the dark and ran into Yusuf. “Ariadne kicked you out, then?”

Yusuf sighed. “No, I just couldn't resist the thought of waking up to your smiling face.”

Eames wasn't a morning person, it was true. “Fair enough,” he said more pleasantly. Then he remembered that today was the Grand Prix, that today he was going to have to ride in front of Cobb's sponsor, and his stomach lurched and he nearly snapped at Yusuf all over again.

By the time he'd gotten on his first horse of the day, though, Eames felt a little better. If he could somehow just avoid having to see Cobb, or Arthur, or Mal or Ariadne or Nash or Saito-- then he thought he might actually make it through the day. The little mare jumped so well in her class he knew that she'd be sold by Monday, which would make the client happy.

Walking back, he stroked her neck and told her what a good girl she was. By the time he saw Arthur and the Cobbs standing outside the pony ring, it was too late to hide. But luckily they were intent on watching the small girl in the ring put in a quite good round on her spotted pony, braids flapping in the breeze.

It was the pony Eames recognized: Dice had been Arthur's, first, and was still one of the most successful pony jumpers of all time. Arthur owned him, but he was leased out to a very lucky, very wealthy child each year.

“Philipa Cobb on Dice,” the announcer said. “Zero faults, time of one minute, nine seconds.”

Eames stared as Mal cheered madly and Cobb hugged his daughter. You couldn't miss what you'd never had, and he'd never had parents. But that didn't mean he didn't wonder what it was like to be the center of someone's world.

He tried to slip by, but Arthur caught his eye and waved in an almost friendly way. He was wearing a beautifully cut suit that emphasized his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips. Eames swallowed hard and waved back, but kept moving.

He had two more rides, and then he had to learn the course for the big class while Yusuf braided The Forger's mane and scrubbed the manure stains off his white legs. When he got to the Grand Prix ring, the Cobbs were already walking the distances between the fences, trailed by both Arthur and Ariadne.

Eames could have joined them. Cobb was meant to be coaching him as well. He could have gone to the other end and paced off the triple combination with Nash, who might not have been friendly but was unlikely to actually kneecap the competition publicly.

Instead he stood in the middle of the arena and closed his eyes, visualizing the layout of the course, imaging the feel of Forge under him, meeting each fence perfectly and clearing it. “Planks,” he muttered to himself, “left to the oxer, bending line to the triple bar, hard right to the in and out, red rails, triple combination, water, finish over the outside line.”

“Hello, Eames,” someone said from just beside his left ear. “What do you think of the course?”

It was Arthur. Of course it was Arthur. Anyone else would have known better than to sneak up on someone whose eyes were closed.

Eames started violently. “Arthur,” he said, blinking.

Arthur smiled in a way that might have been meant to be flirtatious-- assuming Cobb was right. It was the smile of a man who was perfectly capable of burying his own dead. He likes you, Eames thought, be nice. He managed not to flinch. “It looks quite challenging.”

It shouldn't have been possible for the stiffness to bleed out of Arthur's shoulders so quickly. But suddenly he looked much more pleasant. “Yes,” he agreed.

When Eames had worked for Senior, Arthur had seemed impossibly young, this kid who could have had anything but had the nerve to want what Eames wanted. He could ride, but he wasn't patient or tactful, didn't handle people or horses well. But he'd watched. He'd watched everything Eames had done, watched the top riders in the country, and he'd taken it and run with it.

Eames didn't admire him, exactly. It was hard to admire someone with Arthur's advantages, even harder than not hating him. Arthur was smart, ambitious, and hard-working. When Eames had worked for Arthur's father, he'd watched as Arthur drove off at the end of the day in a series of expensive cars with a series of handsome men.

“Are you going to take the inside turn to the triple?” Arthur was asking. His hands, gesturing, were narrow and elegant and capable.

Eames was so nervous about the class that he felt sick, but despite that he felt a flicker of interest. “Yeah,” he said. “But Forge is handier than Point Man. You might be better off going around.”

“Cobb said the same thing.” Which, of course, meant that Arthur had just been asking because he wanted to make polite conversation. “Listen, Eames, will you meet me for a drink? After the Grand Prix?”

And there it was. The moment when he had to decide whether to kick on and gallop to the fence, or slow down and re-balance. Eames swallowed hard and thought about it. Arthur had that killer instinct, but Eames mostly waited. He'd lost to Arthur by tenths of a second before, slowing down. He'd beaten him before, steady when Arthur took a risk that didn't pay off.

But Eames had taken risks, too, getting here. Somewhere in the stable, Yusuf was saddling The Forger, checking his protective boots, tidying the plaits in his mane. They had flown out of Kenya together, the three of them, with no money and no idea where they were going, and only the sketchiest of paperwork. And here he was, on the team he'd read about back in Mombasa in the orphanage, the shining horses and the trim riders in their neat red coats. He'd wanted to be one of them before he'd ever sat on anything but the sad, stumbling pony who did the delivery rounds.

“Yeah,” he said to Arthur. “After. I'd like that.”

*

Sitting on The Forger outside the Grand Prix ring, waiting to be presented, was one of the most surreal things Eames had ever done. He still felt as if he were dreaming, as if he were going to wake up at any second and find himself in his caravan in Virginia, or worse yet in Kenya.

The Forger's braids were a little crooked. He leaned forward to twist them straight and discovered that Yusuf had done the one at the center of Forge's neck with red, white and blue yarn in place of brown. It made him smile; he was still smiling when the ringmaster waved them in.

The lights were very bright and the crowd seemed enormous as he followed Nash's red coat into the ring. He had ridden in front of bigger crowds at Washington and Syracuse and in Florida-- but they'd never cheered for him like this, not even when he won. He halted Forge between the sweating, nervous Money and the more sensible Limbo, and took off his helmet as the first strains of the Star Spangled Banner began to play.

It made him blink back tears, being here like this, being American. Even Nash looked moved, even Ariadne was quiet, and beyond her Mal was crying openly and Arthur was more solemn than ever. Tonight they were rivals, but in a few months they would all be riding for the same cause. Eames had never been part of anything before, not anything like this, and it was terrifying and amazing.

When the presentation was over and Cobb had made his fundraising speech, they turned to ride out and somehow Arthur slipped between Eames and Ariadne. “Good luck tonight,” he said grimly, and if Eames hadn't known-- if Arthur hadn't asked him on a date only an hour before, he would have thought it was a threat.

“Good luck to you, too, darling.”

“For Christ's sake,” Nash snarled from behind him. “Some of us actually want to jump tonight, you know. Get a move on, Africa.”

Eames turned to say something rude, caught Ariadne putting her tongue out, and thought better of it. “Good luck, Nash,” he said instead, catching Nash off guard. They filed out of the ring and into the warmup, which was full of horses.

The Grand Prix was a huge class, with a great deal of money on the line. Eames didn't jump until second to last, so he passed Forge off to Yusuf and went to watch the first few rides. The course was very big, and needed careful riding: none of the first half dozen horses were clear, though Ariadne and Limbo were close, just touching the tape at the water with a hind foot.

After that, Nash and Money and Arthur and Point came in and jumped back-to-back clears, Nash very fast and rough and Arthur very precise. Eames went and warmed up, letting The Forger canter around for a bit before he put him at the fences. There was nothing Forge loved like the possibility of an audience, and his big ears flopped cheerfully as cleared the vertical with inches to spare.

Eames patted him, gathering his courage, before he rode over to the in-gate. Mal was just finishing, Edith snatching at the bit and arching her neck like a warhorse. “Zero jumping and zero time faults,” the announcer said.

“How many clear so far?” Eames asked Yusuf.

“Five,” Yusuf answered, “counting Mal Cobb.”

Mal rode by, smiling at Eames on her way past, serene and beautiful and entirely in love with someone else. The horse and rider just before Eames went in and completely demolished the course, so that Eames was forced to wait while they replaced a shattered rail in the triple combination. “Brilliant,” he muttered, wondering if he had time to slip off his horse and be sick.

The steward was already opening the gate for him. Eames mustered a smile and a thank you for him and rode in. The ring seemed vaster and brighter than ever, now that he was alone in it. He saluted and kicked Forge into a canter as the whistle went.

Every time he jumped a course, there was a moment when he felt completely lost. Was it the red and white rails to the fan fence? The black oxer to-- and then his brain came awake, and he jumped the green rails, the black oxer, Forge forward and very light just as they'd schooled. Left turn to the wall, then the water to the fan to the in and out. After the first four fences he knew they would be clear unless he did something phenomenally stupid. Red rails, the triple combination, and gallop to the final oxer.

The Forger met his fences perfectly, as easily as if they were three feet high instead of six. Pulling him up afterward, Eames sighed with pleasure. “Jump off like that, and we might just manage to pay the mortgage this month,” he whispered, and Forge tossed his head as if he understood.

He rode The Forger back out to the warmup ring and found a quiet corner to stand so that he could concentrate on remembering the shorter but more difficult jump off course. Yusuf sponged the sweat from The Forger's neck and gave him a peppermint. “Just the six of you to jump off,” he reported. “Cobb seems pleased to have his proteges doing so well.”

Eames accepted the bottle of water he offered, but didn't drink. Nash went by on his way to jump, Money jigging anxiously. Eames didn't much like Nash, who tended to be hard on his horses and harder on his owners, but he admired him. Nash had come up from nothing-- no family, no money, had started out galloping racehorses at a tiny track in Maryland. He was ruthless and driven and clever in ways that no one who'd had a decent start in life could appreciate.

Tonight, though, Eames wasn't sorry when Nash had a rail. Arthur was clear, but too careful for once, his time six seconds slower than Nash's. The next horse was clear and had a time of forty-three seconds, and then Mal went in and laid down a blazing clear in thirty-nine seconds. When the last horse before Eames had a rail, he knew Mal's was the time to beat.

The Forger was bigger than Edith, and needed more room to turn, but he was well-balanced and fast. And there was that inside turn, the one Eames had walked when he was talking to Arthur. If he managed it, he'd win. Of course, Nash hadn't managed it. The money for second place would pay the vet and the farrier. But second place might not be enough to get his sponsorship.

Tonight was a night for taking risks. Eames touched the brim of his hat in salute to the judges and kicked The Forger into a gallop. Planks first, this time, then the red rails to the fan, and then he swung Forge around on a dime like a polo pony, and they were going to get in too close at the water-- The Forger's ears flicked as Eames steadied him, as if to say, Show me where to go, idiot, and I'll take care of jumping the fences. He took off from just in front of the water jump, and Eames, looking down, could see the lights glimmering, and then they landed safely on the other side.

They cleared the black oxer and as they came down Eames shifted his weight and opened his right hand, and they were down and already turning. It was a difficult turn, almost too difficult, something Cobb might have managed on Architecture, something Eames was crazy to try with so much money on the line. The Forger came to the triple combination off balance, angry, but with seconds to spare. Eames sat deep and kicked with all his might.

The Forger met the first fence of the triple wrong, twisted to clear it, caught himself and rose to the second perfectly. Eames didn't dare so much as whisper thanks for fear of distracting him. One stride, two strides-- they were over the third and through the timers.

“Eames and The Forger,” the announcer said, “showing Olympic talent tonight. Thirty seven and six tenths seconds. That will give him the win here tonight.”

As Eames rode through the gate, Cobb caught The Forger's bridle. “You took a hell of a risk there,” he said.

Eames nodded, breathless.

“It paid off. Saito wants to meet you in half an hour.” He stroked Forge's neck. “This horse could be something special.”

“Thank you,” Eames managed, but Cobb's eyes were distant and dreaming. It wasn't Forge's red, sweating neck he was seeing, but another horse. Architecture had been a chestnut, too, but so dark he'd looked almost black in the photographs Eames had seen. He wondered if Cobb regretted, now, the bridges he'd burned then. Architecture was dead, and irreplaceable-- but there were other horses almost as good.

But Eames didn't know, himself, what he'd do if he lost The Forger like that, how he'd go on. It wasn't something he wanted to think about. “Thank you,” he said again, and this time Cobb moved back and let him ride on.

Arthur was just beyond the out-gate, waiting while his groom wiped the foam from Point Man's bit. “Beautifully done,” he said. “You made that turn look easy. Mal will be furious.”

Eames shrugged, trying to stay cool. “It was all The Forger.”

“Not all of it.” Arthur's grin made him look younger, less grim. “They want us back in for the awards in a minute. We're still on for later?”

“Of course,” Eames agreed, swallowing hard. “There's someone Cobb wants me to meet, but I shouldn't be much over an hour--.”

“I'll wait,” Arthur said easily. “While you charm Saito out of ten years' profits. You're worth waiting for, Eames.”

“Thank you. For all of it, Arthur. Bringing Cobb around as much as any of it.”

“It's what you deserve.” Arthur adjusted the cuffs of his shirt so that the barest hint of sleeve showed at the wrists. He was perfectly pressed, elegant; Eames had an overwhelming urge to unwrap him like a parcel.

“I wouldn't be here today it it weren't for Senior,” he said. It was a mistake. Arthur's relationship with his father was complex, but not friendly. Arthur looked away. “Hey,” Eames added. “You and Senior, both. The two of you made me crazy. Nothing ever happened quick enough for him-- and you--.”

Arthur smirked. “Me?”

“You're perfect,” Eames said, as the groom buffed Arthur's boots. Two thousand pounds, and made by the same bootmaker who did Prince Harry's. “Do you have any idea how intimidating that is?”

“Eames--.” But whatever Arthur had been going to say was lost as Yusuf bustled up, red-faced from flirting with Ariadne, and began to sponge The Forger clean.

Eames loved him, he did, but he couldn't help feeling that this wasn't Yusuf's forte. He was brilliant at keeping the horses fit and healthy and happy, but somehow Eames and Forge never looked quite as pulled together as everyone else. Maybe if they got the sponsorship, they'd be able to afford someone to follow him around and shine things.

“We're going to present the awards for the Grand Prix now,” the announcer said, and The Forger turned his head and sneezed bits of chewed carrot on Arthur's immaculate breeches.

“I'll text you as soon as I'm done,” Eames told Arthur, trying not to smile.

“Don't drop the trophy,” Yusuf called after him as he rode into the ring. “Sponsors hate that!”

He lined up next to Mal, who was second. “Well done,” she said. “Dom is so pleased.” Eames tried not to think about what she meant by that.

They played the anthem again for Eames and The Forger, and hung a gigantic blue ribbon on Forge's bridle, and presented him with a giant trophy and an oversized check. Eames smiled until his jaw hurt and said thank you in all the correct places, trying not to yawn. The Forger, who adored the attention, posed like a champion with Paris and Nicky Hilton, and then finally they were done.

Eames slipped him a peppermint and rubbed his ears before he handed him off to Yusuf and went to meet Saito and Cobb. It was barely nine, but it felt much later. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and washed the worst of the dirt and sweat off his face in the toilet, and then slipped into the V.I.P. tent.

Cobb was at a table in the corner. The man with him was of average height, average build, not young, but he looked both wealthy and powerful. Eames had learned very young to be afraid of men like that, and it was very tempting to slink back to the barn and give up. They'd get by somehow or other. They always did. He hated asking people for things, for money--.

Mombasa, in a vast and dimly lit hotel room, with crisp white sheets. “Name your price,” the other man had said, his English crisp and flat, and Eames had blushed and stammered and come up with a figure far too low. He shook the memory off and pasted on a smile, walking toward them.

Professional riders were nearly always professional con men as well, and confidence was the most important part of the job. Eames spent a great deal of time convincing doubting horses that they could, in fact, jump the fences he pointed them at. He didn't depend on force, like Nash, or relentless preparation, like Arthur.

“Gentlemen,” he said to Cobb and Saito. “Thank you for your patience.” He shook Saito's hand, noting the strength of the older man's grip. Saito hadn't always been a businessman. He liked them scrappy, Cobb had said, so Eames had better not be too smooth, too charming. Both of the others were drinking Scotch. Eames ordered a beer. An American beer.

He was American now. Working class. A self-made man. It wasn't even a lie. In fifteen minutes he had Saito where he wanted him. It didn't hurt that Saito was there to be played. He knew what he wanted. Eames knew how to give it to him.

The best part was, they would probably make each other happy. Saito was ambitious, but he didn't have Arthur Senior's nasty streak. Eames was good at producing horses, and even better at competing with them. If he had more time, more help, if he didn't have to sell his best prospects on in order to pay the bills--.

“My company is very dependent on image, of course,” Saito was saying. “May I have your word that there is nothing in your past that would be problematic?”

Eames set his glass down gently on the table, didn't look at Cobb. Didn't shred the napkins or flinch or over-react in any way. He was a good liar, much better than most people realized. He'd lied to the nuns as a boy, and nuns were excellent judges of character.

He could lie to Saito, and he could make it convincing. He was very, very good. But he'd been rushing his fences all night, leaving strides out, galloping when caution was the wiser choice. The instinct that had gotten him out of Kenya alive, that had kept him alive on a thousand half-broken horses-- it was telling Eames to steady, to re-balance. This wasn't a man to lie to.

Eames looked Saito in the eye and said, “No. I can't give you my word on that, I'm afraid.” He could see, out of the corner of his eye, Cobb was shaking his head. That was it, then. He'd lost his nerve, blown his chance at a sponsorship. Cobb would never give him another.

Saito looked back, his face very grim. Eames wasn't precisely sorry he hadn't lied. He had the feeling Saito was a bad man to cross. He had been poor before, and survived; he wouldn't survive waking up in an alley with bullets in his kneecaps.

It was late, and he was hot and tired and he still had his date with Arthur. Eames pushed his chair back and stood. “I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Saito,” he said. “Have a nice night.” He nodded to Cobb, and Cobb nodded back.

Eames had turned to go when Saito said, “A moment, Mr. Eames.”

Eames turned, curious.

“Your riding tonight in the Grand Prix-- it was brilliant. You are very much the sort of man I am looking for. And we both know that men like us do not become successful without breaking certain rules of society.”

He knew. Somehow he knew, and he was going to tell everyone. Eames sat down heavily. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I want to be an active partner in this enterprise,” Saito said, his dark eyes cool and assessing, “not merely a source of funding. You and your friend Yusuf will continue to choose the horses, to school them and prepare them and compete them. I will take over the business portion. I will ensure that you have the necessary resources. I think that, should we join forces, we could do quite well together.”

And, Eames thought, no one will ever have to know about your sordid past as a prostitute. It wasn't much of a choice. “If you knew my history, why did you ask?”

“I wanted to see what you'd say. Partners should be able to trust one another, after all.”

Cobb was looking back and forth between them. “I seem to have missed something,” he said finally.

Saito smiled. “Not at all, Dominic. I'm very much obliged to you for introducing me to Mr. Eames.”

“Of course,” Cobb said, as if it had been his idea.

“My lawyers will draw up a contract and send it on to you,” Saito said to Eames. “I'll be in touch.”

“I'll look forward to it,” Eames agreed, putting out his hand, and this was not precisely a lie either. Saito was going to be either a godsend or a blessing, but he had no idea which. “If you'll excuse me, I should check on my horse.”

This time they let him go. He wandered back to the barn, where Yusuf was just finishing up with The Forger. Eames ducked under the stall guard and leaned tiredly against the horse's strong shoulder. “Oh, darling,” he said into Forge's neck, “you were magnificent tonight.”

“That's what they tell me,” Yusuf agreed. He looked as hot and filthy as Eames felt, but considerably more cheerful. There must be a date with Ariadne in the works. “Are we rich, Eames?”

“Christ, I don't know,” Eames said with a sigh. “By the time he was through talking details I couldn't tell up from down. I think we may be, if we do as we're told.”

Yusuf had been bandaging The Forger's legs. Now he looked up, dark eyes sharp. “You didn't sign anything?”

“The nuns didn't raise any fools, isn't that what you always say? Of course I didn't sign anything. Anyway the business is half yours. Saito knows that-- he did his homework.”

“And he knows about Mombasa?”, Yusuf asked.

Mombasa, Island of War, Eames thought tiredly. Mombasa was something he and Yusuf never, ever talked about. When Eames was eight and Yusuf ten, they'd run away from the orphanage, and not been caught for two glorious days, until Sister Benedicta had cornered them in an alley and marched them back by their ears. “We'll get out for good someday,” Yusuf had promised solemnly, and it hadn't occurred to Eames to wonder how.

But children grew up, and sometimes faith wasn't enough. Yusuf had found a job at a stable, and Eames had followed him two years later. There was never enough money to do more than get by, never enough to save, and they were already dreaming of America. And then there had been The Forger. Yusuf was brilliant at chemistry, and sold drugs. Eames didn't have anything to sell.

He wasn't proud of it, but he wasn't sorry, either. How could he be sorry? The Forger had been worth it, after all. Like the sisters, Eames was intensely practical; that was something else Kenya taught. Life was too short, and too precious, to worry whether the money that bought food had been raised by arms-dealing or highway robbery-- or sex. Eames often thought Americans underestimated nuns.

“He said he knew everything-- and I believe him.”

“Oh,” Yusuf said. “Eames--.”

“That's why he wants us,” Eames interrupted him, choking on the words. “Because we're hungry. Because we're desperate, because we can't afford to walk away from him.”

“We might be hungry, but we aren't starving. We're equal partners, Eames, and I say we pass.”

It wasn't-- Eames hadn't even thought that passing was a possibility. “Really?”, he asked.

“Really,” Yusuf said, sliding Forge's halter off. “Go get cleaned up for your date with Arthur, idiot. If you can't have a sponsor you can at least have a sugar daddy.”

“Do you think Arthur would still be interested? If he knew?”

“Will he like you if he finds out you put out? Do I look like a teenage girl? You're supposed to be an American man now, my friend. Try to act like it.” Yusuf smiled, though, saying it. “Arthur has loved you for years, and you are the only one who never noticed. I think there are very few things he wouldn't forgive you.”

“Darling,” Eames sad, and meant it. “I don't suppose we have any money left?”

Yusuf dug a twenty-dollar bill out of the gas money. “I expect change. We aren't rich, you know.”

Ariadne's mother was sitting in a lawn chair outside their caravan, a cigarette clenched in her long red nails. Eames hurried by, eyes on the ground, and made do with water buckets for his bath. He hoped Yusuf wasn't going to end up on the wrong end of Mrs. Ariadne's legendary shotgun.

*

Afterward he texted Arthur and then put on the smartest clothes he had with him, which wasn't saying a great deal. He was ready when Arthur drove up in his shiny blue convertible, spraying gravel all over the lot. He'd had a shower, the bastard, and was wearing a beautifully cut suit. Arthur didn't have to sleep in his horsebox, or a pop-up camper, or a Super 8 motel. Arthur was undoubtedly staying at Senior's Hamptons house, next door to Puff Daddy.

Eames got in the car, feeling like Cinderella after her ballgown had turned back to rags. It was as nice inside as out, although it would have been nicer with the top up and the air conditioning on. “How did your meeting go?”, Arthur asked him.

“We decided we wouldn't suit,” Eames answered, fiddling with the radio so he wouldn't have to meet Arthur's eyes.

Arthur's fingers brushed his, shifting gear. It might have been an accident. “What a shame,” he said, and it sounded sincere enough. “There's Robert Fischer, too, you know. His father had racehorses, but I think he's looking to branch out.”

“Maybe. I've got some pretty nice sale horses in at the moment, so I should be all right.”

“Of course,” Arthur agreed, stopping the car in the street outside a restaurant. Eames glanced at his watch-- almost 10:30. There were advantages to being the son of the former head of the C.I.A. “In fact,” Arthur went on, as the valet hurried up, “I was meaning to ask you about that bay mare you had in the first class yesterday.”

“Don't,” Eames said, and Arthur held up a hand to the valet outside his window. “Date me or employ me, Arthur, but you can't do both.” Not you, he thought, and not ever again.

“She's got a pretty good jump,” Arthur said mildly, “but I'd rather have you.” He opened his door and handed the valet his keys and a folded bill. “Come on, let me buy you dinner, at least.”

“I want an enormous steak, mind you,” Eames said, getting out.

The restaurant was dimly lit and expensive, and almost empty. Eames shook his head when Arthur suggested Champagne. “I'd be asleep by the time they brought the food,” he told him, which was true. They drank Cokes instead, and ordered steaks with fries.

“We used to come to this place a lot when I was a kid,” Arthur said, looking around. “Senior likes it because it's quiet enough to do business in. I'm sorry. Not exactly the most romantic place in the Hamptons.”

Eames looked down at the heavy dark tables, the starched cloth napkins, the crystal. “It's nice. Classy.”

“You don't like it. We can go somewhere else.”

“Arthur,” Eames said, taking his hand. “It's nice. I'm not used to nice, that's all. I could get used to it.” He could get used to the feel of Arthur's fingers laced in his, narrow and strong. “Growing up in Kenya, me and Yusuf, we'd tell each other stories about the kind of people who ate at places like this. I never thought I'd be one of them, is all.”

“What was it like-- Kenya? Do you miss it?” Arthur's dark eyes are curious, assessing. He's listening to Eames, in a way people usually didn't.

“All the time and not at all. It was so hot and dry most of the time. The Forger thought Senior's farm was heaven, all those big green fields. But there's more-- it's like the people there live harder, faster, than they do here. It was never dark where we grew up, never really quiet.”

“You and Yusuf?”

“Yusuf is like my older brother,” Eames said. “Family. We're a package deal.”

“You can't choose your family,” Arthur agreed, no doubt thinking of his own horrible father, “and you can't outrun them.”

No, Eames thought, but sometimes they can outrun you. He didn't say it. It had been a lifetime ago, after all, and how could you miss what you'd never had? He took another piece of bread instead. “What would you have done if you didn't do this?” he asked. “The horses?”

“Not politics,” Arthur said immediately. “Something honest like prostitution.” Eames didn't flinch. “Seriously? Business, probably. I like to run things, as you may have noticed.”

“Yeah, I can see you being head of Microsoft at thirty, or whatever,” Eames agreed, softening the words with a smile. “You wouldn't drive the middle management to suicide.”

Soundlessly and delicately as a ballet dancer, the waiter set their meals on the table. Eames pried his fingers loose from Arthur's. “I'm going to need two hands for this beauty,” he explained. “You asked about Kenya? This was more meat than we ate in a year there.”

As expected, it's perfectly cooked, too. Eames fell on his like a starving animal, while Arthur ate tiny, dainty bites. But he ate fast, at least; he was as hungry as Eames is.

When they came up for air, Arthur said, “Did you want to order something for Yusuf to go? Another steak?”

Eames shook his head. “I will bet you every cent I've got on me he somehow weaseled his way into Ariadne's trailer for dinner, Ariadne's darling mum's shotgun not withstanding.” Arthur stared. “He was brilliant with the nuns,” Eames amplified. “Had them eating out of his hand at a very young age.”

“Ariadne's mother has her own N.S.A. file,” Arthur said slowly. “Senior warned me. They did the beauty pageant circuit in the late 1990s, you know. The assault charges were dropped. She was actually ruled off as part of the settlement-- that's when they switched to showing leadline ponies.”

Eames stared at him. Arthur stared back, straight-faced. Eames was the first one to give in and laugh. “Darling,” he gasped, when he could finally breathe again. “You conned me. You completely had me.”

“I have hidden depths. You have no idea.” Eames thought that he might be right about that. Maybe he'd been missing out on all kinds of things, just because Arthur occasionally seemed a bit creepy and intense. “Dessert, Eames? Or coffee?”

“Better not,” Eames said regretfully. It would be amazing, no doubt, but he was already so full he felt stuffed.

Arthur handed his credit card to the waiter. Eames did hasty math in his head and decided not to risk insisting on splitting the check. It was probably nearly as much as his weekly feed bill. Yusuf's twenty wouldn't even cover the tip. “Thank you for dinner,” he said.

“Of course,” Arthur answered, not looking at him.

Christ, Eames thought, this is the part where he'd ordinarily ask me back to see a video of a sale horse or something, and then we'd go to bed, but I flipped out on him earlier and now he thinks I'm a psychopath. “Maybe we could go for a walk or something,” he offered. “Work off dinner.”

He glanced discreetly at Arthur's shiny watch. It was after 11:30, which made that officially an idiotic idea. Eames wasn't even sure it was what he wanted-- Arthur. It would be complicated, and Eames could ill afford complications.

With Saito out of the picture, there were a lot of things Eames couldn't afford. Arthur was his teammate. Arthur was Dom Cobb's protege. Arthur was Arthur Senior's son, and Senior had access to dirt other people couldn't imagine existed. Do you think Arthur would be interested if he knew, Eames had asked Yusuf, but the truth was, Arthur might already know.

It didn't matter, because the words were already out of Eames' mouth. Arthur blinked, considering. “It's late,” he said finally. “Why don't we go back to the house instead?”, he asked. “We can have a drink, and I'll run you back to the showgrounds afterward, if you'd like.”

If you don't want to fuck after all, he didn't say, which for Arthur was practically coy. Eames wondered if he was meant to feel pressured, having let Arthur pay for dinner. Did it make him the woman? Was he morally obligated to put out? “Yeah,” he agreed. “I'd love to get the, the tour from you.”

That was enough to make Arthur blush. Eames had seen him bucked off by a young horse, rolling around in the sand of Senior's ring. He'd seen him sweat through his shirt, the first time he'd jumped the fast, strong Point Man. He'd stayed up one night walking a mare with colic, and seen Arthur roll in just after four, his hair standing up and his suit rumpled. He knew Arthur wasn't actually perfect.

But Eames still enjoyed seeing Arthur do something human-- eat, blink, smile, blush, fuck. The thought of Arthur in bed made him push his chair back, a little too eagerly, and stand up a little too fast. He was rushing his fences again, probably. Time to sit back and wait for them to come to him.

But Arthur, unlike The Forger, wasn't particularly patient. He held out his arm to Eames, and Eames took it, half laughing and half annoyed. Arthur had a reputation for flamboyance, which was all very well. When you were rich you could afford to be noticed, to be different. But Eames had to make a living, and it wasn't going to be on the strength of his manners, or his fashion sense.

He let Arthur open his car door for him, even though it felt awkward and wrong. Having that conversation now would definitely be getting ahead of himself. It was a short drive to the house, which was good; Arthur's grip on the gear shift turned his knuckles white, though it was hard to tell if that was anticipation or just nerves. For the sake of his own nerves, he decided to assume it was anticipation.

As expected, Senior's house was right on the beach and very, very big-- but unlike the farmhouse in New Jersey, it was modern, all glass and light. It was hard for Eames to imagine, living like this, growing up like this. It isn't because Mombasa wasn't beautiful, and it wasn't precisely the money: Eames had seen money at Cobol, even if he hadn't had any.

It was the way beauty and money were so ordinary to Arthur, the way his immaculate suits were only clothing, and his Porsche was only a car. Things didn't matter to him, because he'd never had to live without them. Eames had never felt so far from home as he did standing in front of the fireplace in Senior's living room, looking up at a painting even he knew was a Picasso.

And then Arthur kissed him, sudden and shy, and he thought that perhaps it didn't matter so very much, that maybe the Americans were right about home being what you made of it, because kissing Arthur was like winning the biggest class, like having the national anthem played for you while they hung a medal around your neck and the crowd roared. All the years he'd known Arthur, all the time he'd wasted daydreaming about lovely, broken Mal-- and kissing Arthur was like victory.

They went to see Arthur's bedroom after that, of course. Arthur's shyness bled away as he pulled Eames up the stairs, dropping his jacket over the newel post and Eames' on the landing, sending cufflinks flying and fumbling at Eames' belt. And then he was on his knees in front of Eames, there in the hallway, his fingers fumbling Eames' cock clear of his pants.

This isn't happening, Eames thought, leaning back against the banister. He'd had sex in hotel rooms and horseboxes, but never before in a hall. But Arthur's mouth was on him, warm and wet and undeniably real, and he couldn't help bringing his hand up to run it gently through Arthur's hair. “I never thought,” he said, “never in a billion years, that you would be so fantastic at this.” And he can feel Arthur laughing around him, but it's true.

He never thought that much about what sex with Arthur would be like, anyway, except when Arthur turned up with one of his boyfriends, looking faintly fucked around the edges. But he never thought of Arthur sucking him off, that prim mouth curving around him, he never thought of rocking his hips gently while Arthur knelt in front of him, careless of the knees of his expensive suit.

He was so tired, and for once that was a good thing, because it kept him from coming embarrassingly fast. It had been a long time since he'd done this, since he'd made the time for it. After he left Mombasa he'd felt like his body wasn't his own anymore, and he'd set out to reclaim it, but that hadn't worked either. There hadn't been anyone special in a long time, not since Mal.

Arthur had him at the edge, had every nerve in his body at attention. “Darling,” Eames said, and tugged at his hair, but he could feel Arthur shake his head and increase his efforts and then Eames closed his eyes and came in Arthur's mouth in the open hallway lined with expensive artwork. It was astonishing, all of it, Arthur most of all.

He was still half dazed when Arthur pushed him into the bedroom, and even though it was meant to be the focal point of the tour he couldn't have said what color the walls were, or even the bedframe, except that it was massive. But he noticed the sheets, which were made of cotton so heavy it felt like parchment, and he noticed the pillows Arthur was lounging against, and the contrast of Arthur's lean brown body against the soft ivory.

The first time he'd been with a man for money it had been by accident, outside a club. He'd been home, for the first time since he'd left, because Soeur Marie Louise-- the only one of them with any kindness in her-- was ill. And while he was there Sister Benedicta had lectured him about wasted potential and immoral behavior, so that by the time he left the orphanage he was angry, so angry that he took the money he'd meant to put in the poorbox and spent it getting drunk. He'd gone with the man into the alley and let himself be fucked against a wall, and afterward the man had shoved thirty dollars in his hand instead of a telephone number

The second time he hadn't even known how much money to ask for. It had hardly mattered-- he'd closed his eyes and thought of The Forger, little more than half-broken and well on his way to being served on a dinner plate. Only Eames knew what he might be someday, Eames and Yusuf, who had the best eye for a horse of any man in Africa.

But by the end, he'd known exactly what he was worth, and he'd held stronger men than Arthur down while he kissed the arc of a collarbone, the edge of a throat, while he unzipped trousers with fingers gone unsteady. Arthur was benefiting from a great deal of experience, and it showed in his closed eyes, in his arms raised and hands taut on the bedposts, in his body, tense and perfect.

Jesus God, let me not fuck this up, Eames thought, the way he had in the beginning when he'd thought it mattered, when he thought he wouldn't get paid. He licked his way down Arthur's hairless, tanned body, immaculate and expensive as everything Arthur wore, and swallowed Arthur's dick. Above him, Arthur shuddered and moaned, more beautiful laid bare like this than he was carefully buttoned and discreetly opulent.

It shouldn't have surprised Eames, the way even the face Arthur made when he came was elegant. “You're so perfect it's unreal,” he said when he could breathe again. Arthur had been running his fingers through Eames' hair, with the same gentleness he showed to Point Man.

The fingers stopped, and moved again. “Is that really how you think of me?”, Arthur asked, sounding more curious than upset.

Eames was lying with his head on Arthur's lean thigh. He thought about sitting up, but he felt as if all of his bones had turned to butter. Besides, he'd never been able to read Arthur's expressions. “Maybe,” he said. “A little. Things work out for you--.”

“My father works things out for me,” Arthur interrupted. “You're damn good at what you do, Eames, and you got there by yourself. You don't think I'm jealous of that?”

“Um,” Eames said, unable to come up with a coherent response to this flattery, especially since he agreed with it. “You're pretty great yourself, Arthur.”

Arthur laughed and wiggled down until they were next to each other, lying at an angle across the big bed. “Promise me something,” he said.

“Anything,” Eames managed, almost asleep.

“Promise me we'll win the team gold in London, because otherwise Cobb is going to kill us for this.”

“Definitely,” Eames said, and fell asleep to the sound of Arthur's laugh.


End file.
